Thump
by Seven Positions
Summary: He tried to beg his friend to keep going, to leave him, he was going to die anyway, but his chest was fully bound by some invisible thing and he couldn’t speak. -Shawn whump.
1. Chapter 1

Hi. This is my first venturing into the Psych fandom. This fic is inspired by the big old scar on James Roday's chest. Apparently he has a pacemaker? I have no idea, but I thought it'd make for interesting fanfiction.

Title: Thump

Rating: Teen, because I'll probably swear a lot in the course of the fanfic.

Summary: (without giving too much away) Shawn collapses during a chase, and only he and Gus know the reason behind the chest pains that caused it.

Characters: Shawn, Gus, Henry, Jules, Lassie. Set before Abigail, even though I like Abigail, for various reasons.

Warnings: Whump.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

Shawn's feet pounded on the concrete in a furious rhythm—_thump, thump, thump, thump—_and sweat beaded on his forehead and his neck. Gus ran alongside him, lecturing him between gasps about _not _aggravating dangerous criminals, _again_, like he _always _does.

Shawn stole a glance behind him. The guy was far behind, wielding a metal bat (scary but embarrassingly short-ranged), and he was, honestly, kind of pudgy. He was sure they could hold out until Lassie and Jules showed up.

As he was turning back to focus on the dim alley he was sprinting through, pain shot through his chest and his frantic hand shot up to clutch at it. Startled, he stumbled and almost fell.

_No, no, no_! This feeling was familiar, too, too familiar.

"Shawn!" Gus shouted, slowing his pace and turning to glare at his friend. "Come on! This is no time to be screwing around—Shawn, are you okay?"

A strange tingling spread through his his body and his body temperature soared. He managed, by some miracle, to keep running, but he had no doubt that today's Bad Guy was gaining on him fast.

God, his chest _hurt_. He had never been so sure that he was going to die.

"Gus," he pleaded, wheezing desperately for air. "Gus, help me."

One hand hooked itself under his elbow and the other sat on his opposite shoulder, and his friend was dragging him forward. But even with this extra help he couldn't _breathe _and his body was failing him.

"I can't, I can't," he whispered. "Keep going, just go get help—"

"I am _not _leaving you, Shawn," Gus muttered, and Shawn could hear in his voice that this was familiar to him, too.

He couldn't take it anymore. His feet fumbled over each other and he fell, dragging Gus down with him. He tried to beg his friend to keep going, to leave him, he was going to die anyway, but his chest was fully bound by some invisible _thing _and he couldn't speak.

Instead, he lay on the concrete and gasped for air. He could do nothing else even as he heard their pursuer's footsteps coming closer.

"Freeze! SBPD!" Lassiter's voice called through the alleyway.

The edges of his vision turned grey.

"What's wrong with him?" Juliet, as the criminal was led away in cuffs.

_I'm dying._

"Call an ambulance," Gus commanded quietly, and Shawn could practically _hear _the tears in his eyes before he finally slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be up soon, probably! Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome to chapter two!

Same stuff applies from before. Little more swearing in this chapter... But whatever.

I decided not to give everything away in this chapter, so bear with me. Chapter three will reveal all. :)

Posted: Approximately 12:10 AM EST, December 14, 2009

EDIT Dec 15th: Forgot to add page breaks. They're in now! Hopefully that's a lot less confusing for you.

* * *

His face felt funny.

Still only half-conscious, Shawn spent the next minute trying to figure out _why _his face felt funny. Eventually he came to the conclusion that there was something on it.

He reached up and his hand cupped around something hard and plastic that was covering his mouth and nose. He tried to pull but his arm felt like jelly and whatever it was on him was resisting his weak attempt.

Someone smacked his hand away.

Cracking his eyes open, he tried to search for the culprit. After his vision cleared and the initial pain of the bright light wore off, he was able to discern his father sitting next to him.

And he was in a hospital room.

_Shit._

Deciding to ignore his father for the time being, hoping that maybe he'd eventually go away, Shawn began to investigate the thing on his face.

Ah, an oxygen mask.

Its presence, along with the dull ache in his chest, reminded him of the chase in the alley, of the searing pain and his collapse. He groaned, the sound muffled by the mask, and slowly massaged the skin above his heart. With the memory came a sort of phantom pain, and sweat began to gather on his forehead.

Apparently, however, his dad was sick of being ignored.

"Shawn, what the _hell _were you thinking?" he asked, his tone dangerously quiet.

Shawn just gestured at the mask on his face, sending his father a feeble glare. He was _really _not in the mood for this. Just as Henry opened his mouth to start yelling, the door opened and Gus entered, balancing two coffee cups in one hand.

The scene froze—Gus watching Henry warily, his hand still on the doorknob, Henry with his mouth hanging open—and suddenly the older man was on his feet and pushing his way out of the room.

Gus took his seat, placing one coffee on the small table and keeping one in his hands.

"I thought you told him, Shawn," Gus said, calm and accusatory at the same time.

Shawn reached up and pulled the oxygen mask off of his mouth. "Well, clearly, I didn't," he rasped.

"Keep that _on_," he snapped, reaching forward and pushing the mask back down. "I can't believe you didn't tell your own father about this," he mumbled, crossing his arms and leaning back. The coffee sat awkwardly against his shoulder and it sort of ruined his angry stance, Shawn thought.

The door opened again and in walked a tall, thin doctor, followed by his dad, who was still livid, if the slightly purple tinge to his face was anything to go by.

"Hello, Shawn," the doctor said pleasantly, countering the mood of everyone else in the room. "Remember me?"

He did, of course. It was his cardiologist, Doctor Barnum. He remembered making stupid jokes about his name the first time they met because he had been so goddamn _scared _that he couldn't think to do anything else.

Not that he'd ever _admit_ to being scared.

He nodded, and the doctor crossed over to his bed, checking the IV line. "Okay, the mask was just a precaution, just to help your breathing get back on track, so we'll take it off now and see how you do." The mask was lifted and Shawn drew as deep a breath as he could—which wasn't very deep, as his chest still ached, but it was enough, and it didn't send him into a coughing fit.

"So, Shawn, it looks like we have to talk."

* * *

_**Santa Barbara, 1985**_

Shawn sat fidgeting on the doctor's table, waiting anxiously for the pediatrician to come in. His father was in the seat by the door, eyeing him warily, probably trying to make sure he didn't make a break for it.

"Shawn, stop moving around so much. That noise is driving me crazy," Henry said, referring to the incessant crinkle of the paper his son was sitting on.

The rebellious boy wiggled around some more, just to be annoying. He was saved from a lecture by the door opening to let in the doctor.

"Hi, Shawn, ready for your checkup?"

"Do I have to get shots?" Shawn replied sullenly.

After a quick chart check, the man said, "No, no shots today," and chuckled when his patient visibly relaxed.

"First, I'm going to check your heart," he said, pulling the stethoscope up into his ears.

Shawn watched the doctor's face as he listened. At first it had that mild look that _all_ doctors wore, to seem less threatening. But gradually his eyebrows began to furrow and his eyes narrowed, just a bit. It was enough to send a pang of fear through him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his throat dry.

Henry perked up in his chair.

"Well," Doctor Porter said, adopting that mild look again, "it appears you have a small heart murmur. When I listened to your heart, I could hear some whooshing and clicking sounds that aren't supposed to be there."

"Is that bad?" Henry asked, worry seeping into his voice.

"There could be any number of causes, but most of the time it's benign, so I think he'll be alright. You'll want to make sure he gets his yearly checkup. If he starts to feel shortness of breath or chest pain, bring him in."

"Alright." The father was placated for the moment, and leaned back in his chair again.

"Okay, Shawn," the doctor said, pulling an otoscope from the wall, "let's keep going, shall we?"

* * *

"Doctor, can I have a minute alone with my son, please?" Henry said in the most civil tone he could manage.

"Of course. I won't be far if you need me." Doctor Barnum slipped out the door and Gus followed, eyeing both Spencers warily as he went.

Shawn braced himself for the blowup by closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He knew if his dad started yelling and he got too worked up, the pain would come back. It seemed like it was just creeping along the edges of his consciousness, waiting to slip back in as soon as his calm was disturbed.

"He told me, Shawn, he told me that you…" Henry broke off, disbelieving. "He told me that you had _open heart surgery_. How could you not _tell _me that?"

There was no response, so he continued on, his voice raising with every word.

"I still don't even know _why. _It was five years ago and I don't even—" Aggravated beyond words, he put a hand over his mouth and took several deep breaths.

"Does your mother know about this?" he asked, his tone quiet again. Shawn shook his head, keeping his eyes closed.

"Dammit, would you _look _at me?" his father snapped. "Who knew about this?"

"Gus. I stayed with Gus," Shawn said, opening bleary eyes. "I told him I told you. He thought you knew."

"I can't believe you," his dad spat. "I can't believe how you always runfrom your problems, run from _me_."

"It was five years ago. I… I was mad at you, I was still mad."

"You didn't tell me because you were _mad _at me? You're such a child, Shawn! You figured you'd get back at me for arresting you by keeping me in the dark?"

"I know! It was stupid!" Shawn burst, sitting up in his bed. His heart was thumping madly in his chest and he could feel the sharp hurt easing in. The beeping of the heart monitor sped up and Henry's attention flickered to it briefly. "I should have told you, but I didn't. It doesn't matter anymore! For _once, _please, just let it go!"

Things were getting fuzzy, now. He clutched at his chest, heaving breaths in and out, and his father was at his side instantly, fumbling at the call button.

"Shawn, stay with me, okay?" Firm hands guided him back onto the pillows and he closed his eyes, trying to will his heart to stop racing.

His father's words echoed in his head as he lost consciousness again.

* * *

Yep, chapter 2 ended exactly the same as chapter 1. I did notice that.

Review please!


	3. Chapter 3

Bonjour! (I just took my French oral exam.)

I was going to update this last night, but as soon as I finished writing it my internet cut out. Of _course. _

So! Some things: This takes place in 2008, not 2009. For _reasons_. Also, like I promised, this is the chapter that explains what's going on with Shawn. And _also_, this is finals week, so… I won't be doing much writing tonight. I have to study _and _bake cupcakes.

Try to ignore my inordinate italics usage.

Enjoy Chapter 3!

* * *

_**Albuquerque, New Mexico, 2003**_

Shawn sat on the doctor's table, bouncing his knee.

_There's nothing wrong, _he told himself. _I'm just out of shape. And the doctor is going to come back in here and that's exactly what she's going to say._

He had undergone a barrage of tests in the last two days. His _favorite _(to be said with a completely sarcastic air) was the stress test. Attached to a bunch of wires, he ran on a treadmill until either the doctor said to stop or until something bad happened.

And of _course _it had been the latter.

He shuddered at the memory.

Doctor James walked in then, holding a file that read _Spencer, Shawn_ across the top. Her smile was sympathetic and her fingers twitched.

Bad news, then.

Ten minutes later, he picked up the phone at the nurse's station with shaking hands and dialed a familiar number.

"Gus?"

* * *

Shawn was fitted again with the oxygen mask, eyes closed in almost-peaceful sleep. Juliet and Lassiter had shown up just minutes after he had fallen under, on their way from the station, and they stood with Henry, Gus, and Doctor Barnum in the hallway outside the room.

Turning to Henry, the doctor said, "If you think he can't keep calm, I'm going to have to put him on a mild sedative." There was a slight warning in his tone that said _if you can't hold your temper…_

Shamed, the older man shook his head. "He'll be fine."

"What's wrong with Shawn?" Juliet asked. She had seen him lying on the pavement, face white, sounding like he couldn't breathe—and his wide eyes, staring blankly ahead. She had seen just a peek of him lying in the hospital bed minutes ago, weak and disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. To see him in so much distress, when he was usually grinning and bounding around like a little boy, broke her heart.

The doctor adjusted his glasses and said, "A normal aortic valve—the valve that lets blood out from the heart and into the aorta—is covered by three leaflets. Shawn was born with only two leaflets. Usually this causes very little issue. Some people with this defect have no symptoms whatsoever. But Shawn…"

"Can never do anything the easy way," Henry grumbled, rubbing the top of his head agitatedly.

Unfazed, the doctor continued on. "Sometimes this defect results in what we call regurgitation—leakage from the aortic valve. Shawn has apparently been experiencing this leakage from a young age. That's what caused his heart murmurs. Again, usually even leakage causes no adverse effects. However, a risk with this particular defect is aortic valve stenosis."

"What's that?" Juliet asked breathlessly.

"It's a narrowing of the valve. Even then, it's only when the valve becomes one-quarter of its original size that symptoms begin. In particularly bad cases, there can be severe chest pain, fainting… which results in the need for surgery. In adults, it's best to completely replace the valve."

He let this information sink in for a moment.

"Shawn came to me from a hospital in New Mexico in 2003. He had already been tested there, and the doctor told him about the surgery, but he wanted to come back to Santa Barbara to have it done."

"He stayed with me," Gus supplied quietly.

"Right. I told Shawn that the best way to go was to use a mechanical valve—it would have been very long-lasting, but he refused. He didn't want to take the blood thinners. He chose to have it replaced with biological tissue, with the understanding that he would likely have to get it replaced again down the road. Anyway… it looks like that time has come."

Gus stole a glance over his shoulder at his best friend. The image of him lying in the hospital bed brought back memories of Shawn looking oddly thin and frail when he showed up in Albuquerque to take him home, and of visiting hours in this same hospital during post-op treatment. He had sat in the uncomfortable chair next to the bed and held his friend's hand as he slept.

But if Shawn ever knew that... he'd never hear the end of it.

* * *

Doctor Barnum was there when he woke up, and they were alone, but he suspected his dad and best friend weren't too far away.

Feeling groggy (_Christ, how many times in a day can a dude pass out?_), he gestured at the mask, and in seconds, it was gone. He coughed lightly, choking a little on the new air, but it was gone as soon as it had come.

"Alright, Shawn, it's time to talk."

He knew what was coming. He needed another surgery. Doctor Barnum was fixing him with a look that was equal parts sympathetic and _I-told-you-so_.

"I know, you don't have to tell me," he said.

The doctor quirked an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Of course. I'm psychic, y'know." That earned a chuckle. "You're going to tell me that… I need surgery again."

Damn, he was already so sick of being tired—not just tired, _exhausted. _The weariness was settled into all corners of his body and he felt… like he was being weighed down, like there was sand filling him up.

"Yes, unfortunately, that's exactly what I'm going to tell you," Doctor Barnum said, then sighed. "Shawn… It's been five years. Your replacement valve degenerated fast. For whatever reason, your heart is very unhealthy."

Shawn did _not _like where this was going.

"It can't support the biological tissue for any substantial period of time."

He let out a long huff of air, lifting one heavy arm to hide his face. His nose fit into the crook of his elbow and he waited to hear what he knew the doctor was going to say.

"If you get the biological tissue replacement again, I'm afraid you're just going to have to keep coming back for more surgery, Shawn. You need to really consider the mechanical valve."

And there it was.

"No," he said, wishing that his voice wasn't as hoarse, didn't sound so weak. It probably didn't help him, either, that his face was buried in his arm like he was some kind of child. But he felt his eyes stinging and his throat contracting. And… he really didn't want to cry, not in front of Doctor Barnum, or Gus, and definitely not his dad.

"Shawn, is daily medication _really _worse than having to come back here every few years for surgery?"

If he took blood thinners, he'd have to be so _careful_, all the time, and he did not do careful. He did reckless, he did fun. He did the kinds of things that made him feel free.

He'd have to stop investigating cases. He'd have to stop riding his _bike_. The thought of giving up the feeling of zipping through open air on his Norton made him feel physically sick.

"No. I won't get the mechanical valve," he said, more firmly this time.

Doctor Barnum stood up, gripping his clipboard. "Okay," he said. "I'll give you a few minutes to yourself, then I'm sending your dad in. We'll talk again later, okay?"

Once Shawn was alone, it became impossible to hold himself together. His breath hitched, he rubbed his eyes, and suddenly he was crying hard. Tears ran down his face and his tired limbs shook.

_What can I do_? he asked, pleading to anyone, anything that could answer.

There was no response—just quiet, white walls.

* * *

Shawn angst!

Throw me a review please.


	4. Chapter 4

Hoo. Well, then. Sorry this took so long. Holidays, then sickness, on top of a longer chapter that wouldn't cooperate and that I'm still not happy with.

But anyway. Hopefully the next chapter will be out a lot sooner than this. Enjoy!

Posted: Approximately 10:50 PM EST, January 11th, 2010

* * *

Lassiter and Juliet sat in the cafeteria in awkward silence, each holding their own cardboard cup of coffee between their hands.

He had not wanted to stay. After all, it wasn't as if he was Spencer's _friend_. Just a begrudging coworker. He adjusted his tie nervously. O'Hara had refused to let him leave on the grounds that they had come there together, and it would be _rude _for him to leave her there.

And when he'd said, "Fine, I'll stay, but I'm not going to _visit _him," she had fixed him with the type of glare that he'd learned _never _to cross, not when it came from a woman.

Therefore, he was stuck here, in the cafeteria, waiting for Henry and Guster to have their time with the nuisance psychic.

It wasn't like he'd felt any _concern _when he'd seen Spencer suffocating for no reason in that alley. It wasn't like his tone had held any extra spite when he'd read the criminal his Miranda rights. He just… didn't like criminals.

"Carlton," Juliet started hesitantly. "Do you think Shawn is going to be okay?"

He was really sort of appalled that she'd asked _him _that, of all people. He gave her a strange look, but she wasn't watching him to see it. Instead, her eyes were glued to the table.

He noticed that her face was kind of red and puffy—she'd probably been crying during her bathroom break earlier—and her hair was falling out of its messy bun. Her makeup was smudged.

As much as he would deny it later, he felt sorry for her. After all, they were partners, and partners had to stick together.

"Yeah," he said. "I think he'll be alright."

* * *

_**Albuquerque, New Mexico, 2003**_

Gus had refused to let Shawn ride his bike back to Santa Barbara—he'd even gone so far to pay to have it moved.

Shawn sat on a bench in front of the hospital, waiting for his friend to come pick him up. All of his belongings were in the backpack that was thrown over his shoulder: a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, hair gel, a cell phone. His helmet, useless for the moment, was in his hands, and he looked down at it as he waited.

Would he ever be able to ride his motorcycle again?

Gus pulled up then (three minutes early, Shawn noted with a quick glance at his watch).

Shawn stood up to get in and suddenly his best friend was out of the car and striding toward him.

"Here, let me get that—"

"Gus, I've _got _it—"

But Gus—_Gus, _who he had always been able to beat at basically anything ever, especially athletics—had managed to wrestle away his helmet _and _his backpack and was even guiding him toward the car by the elbow.

"I'm fine," he snapped sullenly, pulling away and making his escape.

So he wasn't moving as fast as he used to. Gus still let him get into the car on his own.

He sank into the seat and hunkered down, wrapping his arms around himself. It was a little harder for him to keep warm these days. As much as he hated to admit it (and if anyone mentioned it, he was going to deflect and deny like a madman), he had lost a bit of weight lately. That combined with the issues with his heart made him feel like he was wandering in the tundra half the time instead of the southern United States.

He felt the pull of sleep in his brain and tried to refuse it, but as soon as the car was moving, it was a losing battle. He was out like a light before Gus had even started pestering him.

* * *

Gus stole a nervous glance at Henry as the doctor explained to them Shawn's decision.

His face was turning red. _Dark _red. Purple, almost. _That _can't _be good for him. His blood pressure must be skyrocketing. _

"Do you want to go in and see him?" the doctor asked, sounding innocent, like he had no idea what sort of wrath he was about to awaken.

Henry took a moment. Gus knew him well enough to know that he was _itching _to get in there and start chewing out his son. He'd done it enough in the past—seemed he was always yelling at Shawn for something.

Surprisingly, though, he wheeled around and stalked down the hallway, muttering something unintelligible as he went. Gus let out a sigh of relief, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"I'll go," he said. Nervousness washed over him as he eased the door open.

Shawn was lying in the bed, swathed in white—sheets, gown, walls—and his eyes were red. Gus swallowed the lump that rose in his throat.

He had only seen Shawn cry a handful of times, and it always had the same effect on him. It was _terrifying_.

Of course, technically this didn't count, because Shawn appeared to be done. But the knowledge that he had been crying was… unsettling.

"Hey Shawn," Gus said, and took his seat next to the bed.

The smile he received in response was weak, a terrible imitation of the kind that he usually saw from his best friend.

"The doctor said my dad was going to come in," Shawn said, and his voice was barely there at all.

"Yeah, he's, uh… he had to go to the bathroom."

A small, half-hearted chuckle. "You are such a bad liar, Gus. Was he mad?"

"…Yeah, he was mad."

"Are you mad?"

Shawn was looking at him, really _watching _him, and he found that he really didn't know the answer to that question.

Gus wanted his friend to get the mechanical heart valve, he really did, but he also understood Shawn better than anybody. Blood thinners meant an end to everything that made Shawn Spencer. He was spontaneous, he was a thrill-seeker. He'd have to give up everything that he loved, no questions asked. It would all be gone, forever.

With the biological valve, there was always a chance he could go on being his normal self.

"No. I'm not mad," he finally said, rubbing a hand over his face exhaustedly. "I just wish you'd change your mind. I hate seeing you like this, Shawn."

"Well, rest assured, buddy, I hate it as much as you do," the fake psychic said sullenly. Then, apparently done being serious, he added, "Dude, do me a favor and sneak me in a pineapple smoothie later. I can't live off of this hospital food."

"No way, Shawn. Last time I tried that I got manhandled by a surprisingly strong orderly. Because _you _told him you were psychic and you were getting vibrations that I was trying to poison you."

"Fair enough."

There was a knock on the door that completely shattered the comfortable atmosphere they'd managed to build. Henry entered, looking considerably less pissed than he had just a few minutes ago.

Gus and Shawn glanced at each other, and Gus wordlessly got up and made his way out of the room.

Maybe he'd go find Jules and Lassiter in the cafeteria. He did not want to be anywhere nearby for this.

* * *

Shawn gulped. "Hey, Dad."

Henry wasted no time. "Shawn, you need to get the mechanical valve." He sat in the chair that Gus had just vacated, clasping his hands over his stomach.

"Dad, you don't understand."

"I understand _plenty, _Shawn. I understand that you have a serious condition, and that you could die if you don't get it fixed. And that getting multiple open heart surgeries is risky. You should have gone for the mechanical valve in the first place. You wouldn't be in this situation right now if you had."

"Dad—I just…" Shawn blew out a breath, unsure of how to convey the strength of his feelings. "I can't. I can't give all of this up."

A pause. His father seemed to be trying, with exceptional difficulty, to accept what he'd been told.

"Well, I hope you reconsider, Shawn," Henry said icily, "because I'd rather not have to bury my only son." He was out of the room in three strides.

"God. This _sucks_," Shawn said to the empty room, punching his fist halfheartedly into the mattress. His dad's words had affected him more than he cared to think about—the image of his own coffin at his own funeral would be in his head for a while, he was sure.

He held the button on the side of the bed until he was in a sitting position and fingered the IV in the back of his hand. He was well aware of how strange his situation was. Only fat, old men had such severe problems with a minor congenital defect. He was young and fairly healthy—his favorite food was pineapple, after all, not something artery-clogging like steak—and he had a pretty active lifestyle. And somehow, it had happened to him. His heart was just weak, the doctors had said.

Well, _shit_. As if that was supposed to be any consolation. _We're going to have to perform a potentially fatal operation that may or may not fix your serious heart problem, but the good news is, it's not your fault. You were just born weak._

He wanted to get out of here and go home so badly. He wanted to curl up on his bed and sleep for days, if not years, if not the rest of his damn life. He wanted to pretend this wasn't happening. Well, more accurately, he just wanted this to _not_ be happening, period.

But… it _was_. And he had to deal with it.

* * *

_**Santa Barbara, 2003**_

Shawn lay on what he liked to refer to as a "bed on wheels," staring up at the light in the ceiling. There were doctors and nurses all around, indistinguishable under their identical masks, and each one was moving, working with something, setting up for his surgery. It made him feel kind of dizzy—all the movement, and the light, and the _thump _of his heart. He could feel it in his chest, his ears, his stomach, his neck.

"Hey, Shawn," Doctor Barnum said, leaning over him, his voice muffled slightly. "How are you doing? Good?"

Disoriented, he rasped, "Yeah."

"Nervous?"

Shawn nodded, letting the doctor's still presence keep him grounded.

"We're gonna take good care of you, okay? You have nothing to be worried about."

A nurse was fitting a mask over his face, and seconds later, he had drifted into nothingness.

* * *

Juliet had lasted all of thirty seconds before bursting into tears. Startled, Shawn had opened his arms to her and she had thrown herself into them, nearly knocking the wind out of him. She'd calmed down soon enough, but she ended the visit by telling him through subtly hitched breaths to get better and that they'd be pulling for him at the station.

Lassie was next, and frankly, well, that was weird. The detective had been _extremely _uncomfortable, sitting in the chair with a spine stiff as a board, and a blank face, stuttering out platitudes. Shawn had actually pitied him. Jules had probably coerced him into coming in, anyway. They both breathed a sigh of relief when the five minutes were up.

Doctor Barnum had come in then, cleaning his glasses on his lab coat and giving a disarming smile. The surgery wasn't an emergency, he'd said, so it had been scheduled for Friday afternoon. In the meantime, they were going to keep him overnight, then let him go home.

Shawn would have been a little more relieved if home had actually meant _his _apartment, but no such luck. Even then, the situation would have been salvageable if he had been going to Gus', or Juliet's, or even _Lassie's, _but again, he wasn't going to get his wish.

He was going to spend the next three and a half days with his dad. And then probably the next few weeks, if he couldn't do anything about it (and frankly, he couldn't do much of anything after his _last _surgery, so he didn't have much faith for this time).

The next morning, Shawn was sitting on the edge of the bed in yesterday's clothes, tying his shoes, when his dad sauntered in.

There was a cold, smug smile on his face. Shawn assumed it was there because he was going to be trapped in a house with the bastard with no strength to escape.

"Ready to go, Shawn?"

Preferring not to respond, the younger Spencer just stood up, taking a moment to gain his balance. Henry stepped forward, holding out a helping hand, momentarily forgetting his anger in favor of worry.

"I can walk, Dad," Shawn snapped, jerking his arm out of his father's grip. His steps were slow but steady, so Henry let him go and didn't say anything.

Shawn dozed in the car, letting his head loll back onto the seat. Henry took this time to privately reflect on their current situation.

He was still mad, but he was no longer _livid, _exactly. He'd been watching a lot of Dr. Phil lately, and was trying to let things go, to think positively and live in the present. And this was certainly no time for grudges (even if his son's actions had been almost inexcusable). Not when Shawn was sick.

As he glanced over at his sleeping passenger, he knew that he would do all that was in his power to help his son.

* * *

KAY so review please.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys, shorter break between chapters!

Some legal things: I do not own Psych at all. Or Ken Kesey's _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. _

Please please please review then you're done with this chapter! I got like, half as many reviews for the last one as I usually get for this story. Probably this can be attributed to the long wait, but it still made me sad. So, please review this chapter if you have any opinion about it whatsoever.

Posted: Approx. 3:16 PM EST, Jan 27, 2010

* * *

Shawn was a little surprised to find the atmosphere of his childhood home to be anything short of a battlefield.

As it happened, it was… quiet. There was no fighting. And what was a day with Henry Spencer without any fighting? So, Shawn made a couple half-hearted attempts to bait the old man, but it wasn't taken. Instead of yelling or a lecture, he got a brisk squeeze on the shoulder and a spot on the couch with a warm blanket.

It wasn't right. It was weird, and unnerving, but… it was also _nice_.

He was too tired to fight, anyway. Jesus, he was too tired to do _anything_. So, maybe, he was a little grateful that his dad was being nice.

Only a little. An insignificant amount, really. He'd been way more grateful about things, a lot of things, a lot of _important _things. He was grateful to Hawaii for producing most of the world's delicious pineapple, for example.

His dad giving him a break for a couple days before his surgery? Okay. So maybe he was _pretty _grateful, encroaching upon _really_ grateful.

But his dad didn't need to know.

* * *

Henry Spencer woke suddenly and lay in the pitch-dark, breathing heavily, attempting to get his bearings.

Once he realized where he was, he clicked on the light next to the bed and listened carefully for any sign of what could have woken him.

There was no more sound, but something told him to get up and investigate. There was a twinge in his gut and it spurred him out of bed in an instant, bare feet, sliding across the carpet.

"Shawn?" he called softly out the door.

He could just see the outline of his son's body, huddled against the wall a few yards away.

"Shawn? You alright?"

Shawn's knees were drawn up to his chest and his head was buried in them. One hand was clamped on the side of his neck. Without uncurling himself from this position, he nodded slowly. Kneeling down next to him, Henry asked, "What happened?"

There was no response for what felt like an impossibly long time, but was probably only ten seconds. Then, Shawn lifted his head.

"I was trying to go get some water. Got dizzy. My heart was beating too fast," he said, his voice soft and hoarse.

"I'll get you some water. Do you think you can get back to bed?"

Shawn nodded and pushed himself to his feet. Henry followed suit. Once satisfied that his son wasn't going to take a faceplant, he hurried to the kitchen to fill a glass.

Shawn was already asleep when he came back.

* * *

The next day (Wednesday, only two days until surgery), Shawn was sitting on the couch in his pajamas, watching some lame soap opera. His dad was out back, probably grilling something juicy and delicious that he wasn't allowed to eat. The evil (but totally hot) ex-wife was just raising the butcher's knife to kill her ex-husband when he felt his pocket vibrating. He quickly muted the TV and checked the caller ID.

"Hey, Chief! To what do I owe the pleasure? Got a case for me?"

Flustered, Vick said, "Mr. Spencer, certainly you can't expect to be working cases in your—" She sighed, an he imagined her rubbing her forehead exasperatedly. "No, Mr. Spencer, I was just calling to ask how you were doing and to tell you to get well soon. From me, and from everyone else at the station."

He gasped. "Chief! _Even Lassie_?"

"Yes, even Lassiter," she said, and he could tell she was smiling by the tone of her voice. "How are you feeling?"

"I've had better days," he told her, "but I've also had much worse days. Today? Sort of in the middle."

"I suppose that's good to hear," she replied carefully.

The back door opened and his dad called, "Shawn, lunch is ready." An appetizing smell hit his senses and he allowed himself some hope that he'd be able to partake in the deliciousness.

"Gotta go, Chief," he said, snapping his phone shut. He went into the kitchen as fast as he could without making himself dizzy, and there it was, a serving plate with two slabs of juicy, grilled chicken.

"Ninety-nine percent fat free," his dad said proudly, shoving the serving utensil under the first piece and sliding it onto a plate. "Heart-healthy."

As he swallowed the first bite of chicken, Shawn thought maybe he could get used to this.

* * *

_**Albuquerque, New Mexico, 2003**_

"Spencer? You okay?"

Shawn was currently huddled against the wall in the bathroom, trying to will his heart to slow the hell down because he kind of felt like he was dying. The nasty bathroom at work was not where he wanted to die. The voice slipped into his head and right back out.

"Hey, man, you don't look so good. Sit tight, I'll go get someone."

If he had been able to comprehend anything beyond his own discomfort, he would have protested. As it happened, he was completely useless, and in moments there was someone at his side, touching him, speaking to him, trying to get him to move. Something cool and wet was placed on his forehead and it felt so _good_.

A minute later, he was feeling very clammy but much better, and he looked up to see what was probably half of his fellow employees crowded around, staring at him.

His boss, who was kneeling in front of him, turned and shooed them out. Embarrassed, Shawn pulled the wet paper towel off of his forehead and looked down at it, squeezing it in his hands.

"What happened?" his boss asked once everyone was gone, keeping his voice low and calm. When Shawn didn't answer, he just sighed and said, "Go home, Spencer, alright? Get yourself checked out. We'll see you back in here on Monday."

He left work without his usual confidence; the incident had made him feel drained and self-conscious, and he just wanted to go back to his little apartment and fall on the couch and sleep. So, he slung his bag over his shoulder and quietly slipped out, wondering the whole time what the hell was wrong with him.

* * *

Henry sighed, letting his fork and knife fall to the plate with a sharp clatter. Shawn looked up at him warily, a bite of chicken halfway to his mouth.

"Shawn—I've been thinking—"

"And you're finally going to get rid of all of your horrendous shirts and get a normal-person wardrobe?"

A quick pause and a glare later, Henry said, "I think you should call your mother."

"_Dad_," Shawn said, his voice low and threatening. He lowered the fork back onto his plate and leveled his father with a hard look.

"No, Shawn. I don't understand why you kept this from us in the first place. I'm not gonna push you about that anymore, I've learned my lesson. But, please, don't keep doing this to your mom."

"She doesn't need to know," Shawn snapped.

"What if you die on the operating table?" Henry shouted, smacking the table. There was silence for a long moment, and he started in again just as forcefully. "What if you catch an infection after the surgery? What if you _die_, Shawn? _You're not invincible._ How do you think your mother will feel then, when I'm calling her to come to your funeral and she doesn't even know why it happened?"

His son just sat across from him, gaping, looking ashen. For a minute, he was afraid he'd pushed the kid too far again, but eventually Shawn just swallowed and whispered, "I'll call her."

"I'm sorry," Henry muttered, rubbing his face vigorously. "I… I know this is hard for you. But it's hard for me, too, Shawn."

The younger Spencer replied with a weak chuckle and, "Well, I know things must be bad when you apologize without sounding like you've got a gun to your head."

"Shut up and finish your lunch, smart ass."

Even though he'd won the argument, convinced his son to be responsible for once, Henry's stomach was still in knots. Everything he'd said—all that dramatics about death—all of it was true. And he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

* * *

Madeleine Spencer was sitting in her favorite armchair, reading an old, tattered copy of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, _when she received the phone call.

She had been excited to hear from her son. It had been a long time since they'd spoken, even though she kept track of him through the news and through Henry. It would be nice to just talk to him, she thought.

But he had sounded sort of strange, which she picked up on immediately. It made her heart freeze up in something close to fear.

"Shawn? Is something wrong, Goose?"

"I have something I have to tell you about, Mom." He had sounded so despondent. Her fingers wrapped around the phone tightly and she waited.

Her eyes were still resting on the open book in her lap.

An hour later, sitting on the plane, she could still see exactly what page she was on, what line she was looking at when her son told her that he was getting open-heart surgery.

"_Because he knows you have to laugh at the things that hurt you just to keep yourself in balance, just to keep the world from running you plumb crazy_."

She almost laughed at the appropriateness of it as she stared at the image of it, imprinted in her brain, reading it over and over again.

It was Shawn. Shawn understood what McMurphy did: you just have to keep laughing, or the weight of your life will crush you. There were very few things that Shawn did not laugh at. The divorce was one.

Apparently, open-heart surgery was another. That—the complete lack of anything resembling his typical mirth—scared her more than anything.

She chose to ignore for now his confession that he'd had the surgery before and had kept it a secret. It wouldn't help anything to confront him about it, even if she did feel shocked and absolutely hurt. It was more important that she be there for him, at least until he had recovered. And she could understand, at least a little, why he hadn't told her. It didn't make it any more acceptable, but at least she could understand.

A flight attendant leaned over her and said, "Something to drink?"

Madeleine started, looked up at the woman blankly for a second, then said, "No, no thank you."

When she was again alone, she put her head in her hands and sighed. This was just too damn hard already.

* * *

REVIEW. No rly.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey, guys, I apologize for the delay. I do think this is a longer chapter than usual, though, so… at least I have some excuse!

Thanks to all the people who reviewed my last chapter—I got a huge response! Apparently I have to beg in the future. So! Please please please continue to review. Such altruistic behavior makes the world a better place. :)

I'm not really sure I have much to say about this chapter. This is the last chapter before Shawn goes back to the hospital, so… if you were waiting for some more hospital-related drama, that's coming up. And man, will there be drama. I've got it planned already. You'll see.

Enjoy!

* * *

Madeleine arrived at Henry's house a little after eight and Shawn was stretched out on the couch, fast asleep, wrapped in a fleece blanket.

Henry took her bags, but didn't leave. He just stood behind her, and they just stayed there, watching their son sleep.

She could sort of pretend that he wasn't sick, if she ignored how pale he was, how flat and messy his hair was. If she ignored the dark circles under his eyes and the accentuated lines in his face, she could make herself believe that he was totally fine.

Of course, that was ridiculous and no way to deal with the problem. Denial just made things fester until they were ten times worse.

"He's been doing fine," Henry finally mumbled. "Sleeping a lot. Sometimes he gets dizzy. But mostly fine."

She was still struggling to get her brain to cooperate, stay rooted in the present instead of being frozen in shock. She managed, "Good, that's good."

What really would have been good was if he just wasn't sick in the first place, but honestly, she was so thrown that she couldn't think of what else to say.

That, and this was a really fantastic time to start counting her blessings.

"He's going back to the hospital tomorrow night. Surgery's the next day at noon."

"Alright. I'll find a hotel tomorrow."

"You can stay here," he said, then retreated to the guest room to drop off her bags.

Shawn stirred then, his knuckles rising up to rub his eyes. He caught sight of her and murmured, "Mom?"

"Hi, Goose." She was at his side in seconds, resting an affectionate hand on his forehead as he stretched. He settled back in under the blanket, closing his eyes, and let her stroke his hair. It reminded her of his childhood, when he would lay in her lap and listen as she read him a story, and she'd run her fingers over his scalp. He was almost always fast asleep by the end of the book.

"Are you mad?" he asked, his voice tiny, only reinforcing that image of his smaller self in her head. Her heart clenched as she looked at him. He was just so young.

"No, honey. I'm not mad."

* * *

_**Santa Barbara, 2003**_

Gus stood outside Shawn's room in the ICU, looking in at the still figure of his best friend on the bed.

Shawn had been under for ten hours, not counting the time he was in surgery. He was very pale and very thin, he had a ventilator shoved in his mouth, and his wrists were restrained with velcro straps.

He wasn't allowed in yet; Shawn could still get an infection, so he was only allowed visitors of the highly sterile nature—doctors and nurses—people that could actually help him.

Gus could not help Shawn. Gus couldn't do anything but stand here and watch the mechanical rise and fall of Shawn's chest as the ventilator breathed for him. He couldn't even provide his friend comfort. Not from way over here.

Soon, he told himself. Soon he could go in and sit with Shawn, and then he'd be able to do something. Even if it was just holding his hand or helping him get some water, Gus needed to help. He couldn't just sit and stare much longer.

* * *

Shawn supposed he should have seen this coming. Upon looking back, he could see the signs that he was getting worse, that the new valve was failing. For one, his appetite hadn't been as strong as usual. When he stepped on the scale in the bathroom at his dad's that Wednesday, two days before the surgery, he knew that this had been building for a little while. Eight pounds. He'd lost eight pounds since he'd last checked a month and a half ago.

Another sign was the total lethargy that had crept up on him in the last two weeks or so before the chase in the alley. He had a few extra lazy days—but so what? He was getting older. People had periods of extra-laziness all the time. Two weeks is hardly long enough to develop a pattern.

But Jesus. Hindsight is 20/20, right?

There was a knock on the door, and Shawn knew it was Gus. Because of Madeleine's arrival, they had decided to postpone dinner and invite Gus over. It was eerily remniscent of the old days, before his parents split up, when Shawn would approach his mother with his best friend standing close behind him, asking innocently, "Can Gus stay for dinner?" He knew that there was no way she could say no when Gus was right there. It was a tactic he had used often.

"Come in," he called, finally sitting up. He'd been laying on the couch, dozing, since five o'clock. He couldn't even bring himself to sit up when his mom had arrived a half hour ago. But, dinner was almost ready and his friend was here, so he figured it was time to get up.

Gus came in, kicking off his shoes.

"Hey dude."

Gus dumped himself onto the couch, sighing heavily.

"How you doing?" he asked, throwing a sidelong glance over at Shawn.

"Never been better. Hey, listen, let's have a Shawn and Gus day tomorrow. You can drive me around and buy me smoothies and other delicious things. And we can go to the beach, and visit Lassie and Jules at the station. Gus! It'll be _sweet_."

"Shawn, your mother just came into town to see you," was the disapproving reply.

"Hey, it wasn't my idea," he muttered sullenly, earning a sharp elbow to the side. "_Gus_, don't be a half-eaten churro! I'll see her tonight, and before I go to the hospital, and after I wake up, and probably for a week or so after that. I just want tomorrow to be awesome."

If Gus picked up on the sudden emotion saturating his tone, he didn't comment. Instead, he adopted the annoyed expression that he usually wore around his best friend and said, "Fine, Shawn. But we are _not _visiting any crime scenes."

Shawn gave a tired but brilliant smile. "Got it." He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and leaned back, grinning, letting his eyes slide shut. "Dude, it's gonna be the best day ever."

* * *

"I need to talk to you about Shawn," Henry said, turning away from the salmon he had cooking on the stove. He kept his voice low, glancing at the doorway to make sure that they wouldn't be overheard.

Madeleine dropped down into a chair at the kitchen table, clasping her hands in front of her. "Okay. What is it?" She had no idea what he was going to say, but the sinking feeling she'd had as soon as she'd gotten the phone call was only intensifying.

"The kind of surgery Shawn's having… a valve replacement… there are a couple ways to go about it. The first time, Shawn got a valve made of living tissue. It didn't last, obviously, and now the doctor wants him to get a mechanical valve."

He paused to make sure she was following him so far. She nodded.

"He's refusing. He doesn't want to take the blood thinners."

"But…" She tried to wrap her head around this. "Won't the valve just deteriorate again?"

Henry nodded solemnly.

"He'll have to get another surgery."

"Yeah, well, he thinks that's better than taking blood thinners, for God knows what reason," Henry scoffed bitterly. "I was hoping you could talk him into getting the mechanical valve."

Madeleine sat in silence for a moment, letting the situation sink in. She still couldn't believe that her son, her little boy, could be so sick. It didn't make sense that such an eternally young, vibrant person, and the man she she had given birth to and helped raise, could have such a severe problem. She and Henry—they were old. It should be them, hovering over the precipice, so close to… She didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't avoid the issue forever.

Shawn could die because of this.

She closed her eyes, fighting back the wave of panic and sadness that descended upon her at the thought.

"I'll talk to him," she said finally. "Your salmon is burning."

Henry swore and turned quickly to salvage their dinner.

Even though the salmon was slightly burned (for which Shawn had lightheartedly harrassed his father), the dinner was oddly relaxed. Gus' presence put Shawn at ease, and together, they filled Madeleine in on their most recent adventures.

When his food was gone, Shawn excused himself to the couch and was fast asleep again in minutes. Henry came out after the dishes were all cleaned, saw the still form of his son on the couch, and enlisted Gus' help to drag Shawn, now half-awake, to his childhood bed.

* * *

Shawn was at the table, eating Cheerios in skim milk (_man, _did eating healthy make him feel boring), when his mother walked in.

"Good morning," she said, and he nodded in response, sinking his face further into the bowl in front of him. He could feel a _talk _coming on. This was exactly why he didn't want to tell his parents in the first place. He braced himself for the psychotherapy that was sure to come. Bitterly, he thought, _We're only missing the leather couch._

She sat down across from him and sighed. Shawn pointedly put another large spoonful into his mouth. Recognizing his tactic, she decided to wait.

They both stayed stubbornly silent until Shawn was left with a bowl of milk.

_Dammit. Should have seen that coming._

"Shawn, your father filled me in last night about your condition and the surgery you're having."

He let out a breathy laugh, looking at the spoon he was swirling around in his milk instead of at her. "Oh, did he?" He knew what this was all about, now.

"Yes. He told me that you are refusing the recommended surgery. The mechanical valve." When she didn't speak again, Shawn realized that she was waiting for confirmation. He jerked his head in a frustrated nod, still choosing not to look at her.

"He also said it was because you didn't want to take the blood thinners. Is that right?"

A long-suffering sigh. "_Yes, _mom, that's right."

"Wanna tell me why, Shawn?"

"Not particularly."

She let another minute pass by in silence, then: "To be honest, he asked me to talk you into the mechanical valve. I can sit here and try, but I know how stubborn you are. I know what blood thinners will do, and I can see why you don't want to take them. Just know that I think the mechanical valve is the right choice."

She stood up and walked away then, and Shawn was left with his eyes glued to the bowl of milk, holding the spoon, his hand still.

* * *

"O'Hara," Lassiter spoke in his usual sharp tone, "I need that paperwork on my desk by one o'clock. What are you sitting around for?"

"Huh?" Juliet said dumbly, lifting her chin from her hand to look at him. "Oh, sorry, Carlton. I was just…" She looked guilty, like she was fishing for a lie.

_Oh, sweet Justice. I can't believe I'm about to do this._

He hazarded a guess. "Worrying about Shawn?"

"No!" she blurted quickly, and she knew immediately that she'd given herself away. "Well, okay, yes. I mean… It was so sudden. And he looked so… I just wonder if he's doing okay."

"Aww, Jules, worried about little old me!"

Shawn and Gus rounded the corner then, prompting Juliet to jump and squirm in embarrassment. Shawn was wearing a sweatshirt, a little heavy for the temperature in the station, and the sleeves were pulled over his hands as he took sips of his pineapple-mango smoothie. He had substantially more color in his face than he had at the hospital, but he still looked tired and disheveled.

"Shawn! Are you okay to be wandering around? Should you be resting? How are you feeling?" Juliet burst out in one breath.

"Whoa, Jules, take it easy. I'm fine. As long as I don't have to run for my life again, I will remain fine. Gus and I are having an awesome Shawn-and-Gus Day of Adventures. Our first adventure was smoothies."

Juliet grinned. "And is visiting us your second adventure?"

"Why, yes it is." He flashed a smile. "I couldn't pass up a visit to my favorite detectives. _Lassie_, have you missed me?"

Lassiter, who had merely been watching up to this point, was flustered at being the sudden focus of the conversation. He mumbled something unintelligible and stalked away.

"Aw, don't worry, Lassie, I know you did!" the fake psychic yelled after the detective. He tapped his temple, sending a conspiratorial glance to Juliet.

"Shawn!"

Shawn whirled around. "Buzz!"

The large officer approached and gave him a friendly pat on the back. "How is everything? Man, I heard about what happened. Some pretty serious stuff, huh?"

"Yes," Shawn replied with mock solemnity. "Surgery is often very serious. But don't worry—" here he put a hand up to his temple—"The spirits have assured me I have nothing to fear."

"Well, I hope they're right."

"Buzz, I ask you: When was the last time they were wrong?" Shawn followed up his question with a long draw from his smoothie.

"Huh. Never, I guess."

"Exactly. Nothing to worry about. Now, if you'll excuse us, Gus and I should be getting on to our next adventure: sitting at the beach, where Gus will eat a burrito and gloat while I look on in envy."

"You know that's right."

Shawn rolled his eyes, giving Juliet a look, and said, "I let him have his moments. See you Jules, Buzz. Tell Lassie I give him a great big kiss goodbye!"

Juliet watched the psychic and his friend saunter out of the station, beginning their usual banter, with a sad smile.

After a long moment of silence, Buzz let out a breath and, sounding unsure, said, "He'll be okay."

"Yeah," she replied, not managing to sound any more confident. "He will."

* * *

When Gus dropped Shawn off at Henry's later that afternoon, Shawn managed to look completely normal as he walked through the house straight to his bedroom. The pretense dropped, however, as soon as he shut the door behind him, and he immediately turned around and collapsed face-first onto the bed.

He was _exhausted. _After a few moments of preparation, he rolled over onto his back and kicked off his shoes.

"I'm so sick of this," he mumbled tiredly, his exhaustion slurring his words. He turned his head and checked the clock.

An hour and a half until he had to leave for the hospital.

He curled onto his side, shut his eyes, and let the haze of near-sleep fill his head.

He was having second thoughts.

Yesterday, he had been so sure of his decision to have the biological valve replacement. Anything, _anything_, would have been better than losing his Norton, losing his freedom. Every day of the rest of his life would be spent in caution. Dammit, he'd been cautious maybe ten times in his whole life. There was just _no way_.

And somehow, he was having _second thoughts._

It was all his mom's fault. Something about her always got to him, hit him someplace his dad and Gus could never get to. She told him it was the right thing, didn't yell, didn't even try to reason with him, and yet… It was more effective than anything anyone else had said to him.

And maybe… he didn't have to let this thing beat him. Maybe he didn't have to lay down and let the blood thinners win. It was his damn life—who said he couldn't live it on his own terms?

The fact was, even if he survived this surgery (and that was _so _not a place he wanted to go to right now), he was probably not going to survive another.

He buried his head in his pillow and swore loudly.

He wasted to do so much. There were always so many things he wanted to do, no matter how much he did. And that was great. It was exciting. Until, suddenly, he's faced with his own mortality—there was a high probability that tomorrow would be the last day of his life. Or maybe any day in the next week.

"Shit," he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut, denying vehemently to himself that there were any tears welling up in them. He didn't want to die.

There was a pillow next to him on the bed and he pulled it to him, holding on like he'd fall away if he ever let go.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please review.


	7. Chapter 7

Hey, everybody! I think this is probably a faster update than last time. Also, I think, longer. Hopefully.

Thanks to all of my readers/reviewers/favorite-ers/alert-ers! Please continue doing all of those things!

A warning: I am not a doctor, nor do I have any medical problems, nor do I have a close friend or family member who has medical problems. Therefore, I don't know crap about hospital procedure. I did some research, but some things are bound to be wrong or flat-out impossible. I'm writing fiction, here, guys. Suspend your disbelief. Kay thanks!

Please enjoy!

Posted: approx. 3:10 PM EST, March 11, 2010

* * *

The drive to the hospital was _weird_. He sat in the back seat of his mother's rental car (Henry's pickup couldn't have transported all of them comfortably) while his parents sat together up front. So, that was strange in itself considering his parents hadn't lived in the same state in years, much less been in the same car. But they were also being affectionate toward him. He could see this look in his father's eyes—pride and love and sadness—that he'd really never seen there before.

He felt like he was five years old again when the nurse came to take him back into the depths of the hospital and his mother gave him a kiss on the forehead.

Now, he was laying in a bed, wearing one of those stupid gowns, and he was running through his memories of last time, thinking of what he should expect. Pretty soon, he was going to have to shower using a special soap, and afterwards, they'd clip off his body hair. Then, he'd have to shower again. He'd be given an IV. They'd probably feed him, and if they did it would definitely be before midnight. Then, they'd leave him alone for the night. All he could do until morning would be to lay in anticipation and try to sleep.

He sighed, resting his hands on his stomach, and closed his eyes.

Hey wasn't used to being so conflicted. Usually, he stuck by every decision he made, stupid or not, simply because he was stubborn. He liked to live on a whim, consequences be damned.

Apparently, however, he'd learned enough by passing out, experiencing that sharp pain in his chest, and going through this damn surgery to know that this was not something to take lightly. Apparently, all this life-or-death shit was enough to make even _his _self-preservation instincts kick in.

"_Just know that I think the mechanical valve is the right choice_."

_Dammit_. He felt himself swaying, leaning over the middle line toward the decision that _wasn't his. _He'd made his choice and now he could feel himself leaving it.

_I don't want to die_.

Was that so wrong? He sighed, raking his hands through his hair in frustration.

No, maybe it wasn't.

A nurse came in to check on him maybe fifteen minutes later. As she was leaving, he summoned up his courage (and since when did he ever need to do _that?_) and said, "Wait—you think you could get Doctor Barnum in here for me?"

She turned and smiled at him. "I'll see what I can do."

When the doctor walked into the room, Shawn wasted no time. "I changed my mind."

Doctor Barnum was caught off guard by this and didn't say anything for a few seconds. "About the surgery?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah." Shawn let his gaze fall to his hands in his lap. "I… decided I want the mechanical valve."

"Wow. That's great news, Shawn. May I ask why the sudden change?"

"I mean, I… just got to thinking about it and changed my mind." He spoke sullenly, trying to convey to the doctor that he didn't want to talk about it.

"Alright. I'm just going to go make some adjustments and I'll be back soon to talk with you about the surgery and answer any questions you have. Not that you should have many; you're an old hat at this now, right?" He smiled and left the room.

Shawn was left wondering whether being an "old hat" at heart surgery was something good in any universe, because it certainly wasn't in this one.  


* * *

_**Santa Barbara, 2003**_

Gus had insisted that Shawn sleep in his bed while he stayed there, and Shawn didn't put up much of a fight for a few reasons; sure, he felt guilty, but he needed more rest than a night on the couch could provide. Also, he didn't really have the energy to expend trying to get Gus to back down.

He settled into the bed almost immediately when he got into the apartment, still too easily tired, breathing in the subtle scent of clean sheets. He could make fun of his best friend all he wanted, but at the end of the day he was pretty grateful for the meticulous care he took in being courteous. He did _not _want to sleep on someone else's dirty sheets, no matter how close they were.

The tubes were all removed now, and despite the extra-long time he spent unconscious after the surgery (painkillers really messed with his system, sometimes) he'd made a fairly quick recovery. There were still the stitches, of course, in a long line down his chest, and he had to spend a lot of time resisting the urge to scratch at them. He also couldn't lay on his stomach, just because it'd hurt like a bitch.

Shawn closed his eyes and laid his hand over his heart. After the doctor in Albuquerque broke the news, he would lay in bed and just feel his heartbeat, trying to detect any hint of what was wrong.

Now he just wanted to make sure it was still in there, still beating. He wanted to make sure he was still alive.  


* * *

Henry and Madeleine had planned to drop Shawn off, give him some time to get settled in, then come back, maybe after a little dinner, to wish him well one last time before his surgery.

They were eating in Henry's kitchen when the phone rang. He stood, grumbling, and crossed to it. The caller ID said _SB Gen Hospital_.

He snatched it up immediately. "Hello?"

"_Henry Spencer_?"

"Yes."

"_Hello, this is Doctor Barnum, your son's cardiologist._"

"Is everything alright?"

"_Yes, yes, more than alright. Shawn changed his mind about the surgery._"

"What? What do you mean?"

"_He's consenting to the mechanical valve._"

Henry let out an incredulous breath. "That's great, Doctor, thank you."

They said their goodbyes and hung up, and he turned toward his ex-wife slowly. She was perched on the edge of her seat, her dinner forgotten, watching him inquisitively. He supposed she had been terrified, just as terrified as he had, but his reaction to the news had softened the fear into curiosity.

"Shawn's getting the mechanical valve."

She sprang out of her seat and the next few seconds were a mess of excited shouts and frantic hugs. They weren't a divorced couple, then; they were only two parents sharing relief over their son.  


* * *

There he was again, staring up at the ceiling of the operating room with the cool table spread out below him. He was secured down and had been cleaned again, and the doctors and nurses towered over him as they set up the area for his surgery. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

Of course, being who he was, he couldn't keep his eyes closed for long. They slid open and he watched the anesthesiologist setting up an IV line. He knew it was coming soon, the prick in the skin. He wasn't used to the intravenous method of sedation, so he didn't know yet where they'd be sticking him, but he knew that it would only take a minute to be completely and totally unconscious.

He looked back up at the ceiling, his eyes picking out every imperfection in its surface.

"Okay, Shawn, I'm going to insert the IVs. One is going in your arm; the other's going into your neck. Okay?"

He nodded slowly and there, there it was, the moment of sharp pain and the dull sting that lingered after—and again, this time in his neck. He kept his eyes open and trained on the ceiling as long as he could, wondering solemnly if it would be the last thing he ever saw.  


* * *

Almost four hours later, Doctor Barnum walked out into the waiting room to see Henry, Madeleine, and Gus sitting silently together. Henry spotted him almost instantly and was on his feet, his companions trailing behind him.

"The surgery went fine. There were no complications."

Instantly, a distinct difference: they all slumped in relief, the tension of waiting leaving their shoulders.

"He still has a long road to recovery," Doctor Barnum said quickly. "He's not out of the woods yet, so to speak. He'll spend a few more days in the hospital and then he can go home, but it will still be weeks before he's back to his normal self. And there's always the risk of post-operative complications. We'll keep a good eye on him here, but once he's out, he'll still need to be taken care of for a while. Just to make sure everything goes smoothly with his recovery."

"Of course," Henry jumped in. "He'll be staying with me. I can take care of him."

"Good. He won't be allowed visitors for a while so I recommend you all go home, at least for a few hours. Someone will call if anything comes up."

_If anything goes wrong_. They all heard it hiding underneath what was supposed to be a reassuring statement, and it struck Henry and Gus dumb.

Madeleine said, "Thank you, doctor. We'll do that," and gently guided them away by their elbows.

* * *

When Shawn drifted finally into lucidity, it took him a few foggy moments to register the feeling of the Velcro restraints on his wrists and the ventilator in his mouth. If he were less heavily medicated, his body would have tensed up in wariness—these foreign sensations confused him—and it took another few minutes for him to call up the memories of last time and realize what they were. Despite his discomfort at being restrained and having a tube shoved down his throat, the knowledge of what was happening to him was calming.

His eye blinked half-open and he stared ahead of him at the ceiling. He wondered with vague coherence how long he had been out this time.

He closed his eyes again with the intent of falling back to sleep, but the door opened then and a nurse entered. He gazed hazily at her as she approached.

"Hello, Shawn," she said brightly. Her name took a few extra seconds to come to him—_Jenna—_also the name of the cute blonde girl who had sat in front of him in his fifth grade class. Jenna the Nurse was blonde. "You're looking great. Do you feel okay?"

He nodded carefully, making sure not to nudge the ventilator in a bad way.

She checked the monitors around him and made a note in his chart. "Yep, everything is looking good. You did wake up a couple times before now. Do you remember?"

He shook his head, and she continued. "I didn't think you would. I'm afraid we have to wait a couple of hours yet before we can remove the ventilator, but we should be able to take off the restraints soon, at which point you'll be able to use a notepad to communicate."

Shawn remembered. He hated this period, when he was still so restricted, unable to convey anything except _yes, no, _and _ouch_. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know things.

She smiled and said, "Hang in there," and then she left him alone.  


* * *

It was the next day, while Lassie and Jules were visiting him, that it happened.

Shawn was able to sit up but hadn't graduated to standing yet, and he was allowed visitors for fifteen minutes at a time every hour. The visitors had to wash and sanitize before entering the room and the nurses highly discouraged touching, but at least he could see people. They were a great distraction from his fatigue, soreness, and immobility.

He had been feeling really odd for a couple of hours, but he chalked it up to the fact that he'd recently had heart surgery and didn't say anything. It was actually Lassiter who noticed first.

"Spencer, you're not looking too good," he said, his sharp eyes inspecting Shawn's face.

Really, he didn't feel so good either, but there was absolutely no way something was going wrong. He laughed it off weakly.

"Concerned, Lassie?"

Juliet frowned at him. "No, Shawn, he's right. You're looking really flushed. She leaned over and put a small hand on his forehead. "You're a little warm. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he told her even as sweat began to form on his skin.

"I'll get a doctor," Lassiter announced, striding out of the room.

"I'm supposed to… have a slight fever," he mumbled, feeling a wave of dizziness. Juliet guided him onto his back and then stepped away as a nurse came in.

"Hey, Shawn," she said, checking the monitors around her patient. Her face tensed, as if she didn't like whatever it was she saw. "How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy. Sick."

"Nauseous?"

He nodded, his eyes squeezing shut. She sent a quick page then set to work, removing the pillow from underneath his head.

Juliet, suddenly realizing where she was and that she would be in the way very soon, turned and ran out. Lassiter was hovering in the hallway by the waiting room with his hands shoved in his pockets and she went to him.

"He said he was feeling dizzy and nauseous and he had a fever," she blurted, speaking so rapidly he almost couldn't understand her. "I think he must have an infection, then. Those are symptoms of an infection, right? So he... Do you think he'll be okay?"

"O'Hara, you're shaking. Come on. Sit down." His hand on her back led her into the waiting room and into a chair. She buried her face in her hands and let out a rattling sigh. He didn't say anything—probably, she thought, at a loss for words more than anything else, but it helped. She needed to take a moment in silence to collect herself.

When Lassiter could see that Juliet had calmed down, he stood, pulling out his cell phone. "I'm going to call Henry."

Juliet did not envy him. She watched him walk out of the waiting room like a man on his way to the guillotine and felt a surge of pity.

Her thoughts turned back to Shawn—Shawn, so vibrant, always looking to make her smile, who was lying in a hospital bed with an infection attacking his body.

She tried, she really tried, to believe that he'd pull through, but it wasn't working. Doubt was creeping in, filling her stomach. She dropped her head into her hands and cried.  


* * *

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit shit shit_.

With a swift downward movement, Henry threw the phone onto the kitchen counter.

This could _not _be happening. There was no goddamn way this could be happening. There was no reason. Shawn made the right choice, he was a good kid, he helped people and solved crimes, and this was somehow _still happening._

"Oh my god," he breathed.

He'd looked it up online earlier—very, _very _few people survived a post-operative infection after heart surgery. He wanted to be hopeful, to tell himself that his boy was going to be just fine.

He just really couldn't see any way that Shawn could survive this.

He could _feel _himself crumbling on the inside; he was struck motionless by the sudden, overwhelming grief.

"Henry? Is everything alright?" Madeleine asked from the doorway. He could hear fear in her tone and it triggered a protective reaction in him—something he picked up after years of being an officer and a father. He was able to pull himself together just enough to be able to speak.

"That was Detective Lassiter. Something went wrong."  


* * *

Shawn shot up into a sitting position, his face twisted into a grimace, and vomited into the basin the nurse had placed under his chin. The motion sent a shot of pain through his chest. His skin was flushed and slick with sweat and he was panting hard. A gloved hand on the back of his neck helped him back down.

The nurse was hooking him up to a new IV, presumably one with a heavy, aggressive dose of antibiotics.

His fever wasn't quite high enough to send him into a babbling stupor yet; he wasn't sure whether he should be grateful. His stomach was rolling viciously, his whole body ached, and he would probably have the memory of his wound, swollen and dripping discharge as a team of medical personnel cleaned it, in his mind forever and ever.

And he was also cognizant enough to be absolutely terrified.

His heart thumped painfully in his ears. He didn't want to die. It wasn't fair: he made the right medical choice—everyone told him to get the mechanical valve, and he didn't want to, but he _did, _because he didn't want to die—and now… he was dying anyway.

He knew with the part of his brain that wasn't addled by drugs and fever that he was being completely irrational, that there was no reason this should or shouldn't be happening. There was no reason to anything, really. Things just _were_.

He wasn't being punished, but _god… _it really felt like it.

His stomach pitched again and he just barely managed to sit up before he was heaving bile into the basin. The spasms were pulling at his infected wound and locking up his throat. His body was screaming in agony.

Once he was settled onto his back again, the nurse leaned over him and said from beneath her mask, "I've started you on antibiotics, Shawn, but we're going to have to keep cleaning out your wound periodically. Okay?"

He noticed she didn't try to tell him he was going to be alright. Slowly, he nodded, concentrating on his breathing, trying to block out the pain in his chest, his throat, his skin.

The fear was beginning to overwhelm him, and in his vulnerable state, he couldn't keep the tears from forming and spilling over, tracking cool paths down his face.  


* * *

Thank you for reading! Please review.


	8. Chapter 8

Hi, guys. I am really sorry for the long wait. Since it's nearing the end of the semester, I have had a lot of stuff to do. I also wasn't really sure where I wanted to go with the chapter and eventually decided to give you all what I had. I feel like I'm kind of running in circles with this fic… but I'm sure that'll get resolved.

Please please please review! I will love you forever.

Posted: Approx 12:50 PM EST Apr. 16, 2010.

* * *

Doctor Barnum stood in front of Shawn's parents. He could see the fear, the misery, and—more so in Henry than in his ex-wife—the accusation. This was possibly the worst part of his job: dealing with the family. Although, having to watch his favorite patients deteriorate came in a close second.

"Shawn has contracted a pretty severe surgical site infection," he told them.

Doctor Barnum was genuinely upset that things had taken such a turn. He really liked Shawn. The kid had a wicked sense of humor and a strong thirst for life. His suffering hit the doctor in a way that was, admittedly, sort of rare. Being a doctor for so long desensitized you to such things—but every once in a while, a patient really grew on you.

Shawn was one such patient, and he was so _young_. And Doctor Barnum knew what kind of chances he had with such a severe infection.

So, it was especially hard, when he was already distressed about the situation, to deal with the accusing glare of Mr. Spencer.

"How did this happen?"

"That's very hard to say. It could have been caused by any number of things—a careless visitor or nurse or intern… Low oxygen supply to the blood, which is a common symptom of heart conditions, can also be a factor. What we have to focus on now is making sure he gets through this."

Henry sighed and ran his hand over the top of his head. "Alright."

They slunk back to the waiting room, looking utterly defeated. He watched them go, hoping hard that he wouldn't have to break their hearts and tell them that their only son had died.

* * *

Gus was bent almost double in his chair, resting his forehead on his clasped hands, praying silently. No one was allowed in to see Shawn and he was going crazy with worry, reining himself in just enough to keep him in his seat. It had been a couple of hours since he'd gotten the call and he had been planted in the same exact spot since.

This was bad, and Gus was terrified, but he still had hope. Shawn had pulled so many crazy stunts before, had gotten himself into so much danger, and he always pulled through, always bounced back. He could bounce back from this.

Turning his head slightly, he looked at Henry, Madeleine, Jules, and Lassiter. There was something… really off about the way they were sitting, the looks on their faces. They were listless, blank.

Henry glanced over and their eyes met for a long moment, and Gus could see it. He had given up.

Shocked, Gus sat up and raked his gaze over all of them.

They had _all _given up.

They were waiting for Shawn to _die_.

This realization sent fury rushing through him. The combination of the fierce anger and his raw angst over Shawn's condition propelled him to his feet, and he turned and glared around at them.

"_No_," he snapped. "No. You can't give up on him."

Lassiter sighed. "Guster…"

"No! Shawn is in there fighting for his life, and you're all sitting here like—like you're just waiting for someone to come out and tell you he's dead! How is he… how's he supposed to fight if everyone he loves has written him off?"

He couldn't stay there with them anymore. He couldn't look at Juliet's face and see the shock and the guilt and the hurt, and he couldn't look at Henry and see the bone-crushing sorrow. He couldn't deal with their resignation.

"It's not over yet," he said weakly before rushing out of the waiting room.

He couldn't let himself admit defeat, like the rest of them had. He refused to believe his best friend, the person he knew better than anyone else in the world, was as good as dead. He had to be strong—for himself and for Shawn.

* * *

_**Santa Barbara, 2003**_

"It's been three weeks, Gus. _Three weeks_, and I still can't _do _anything." Shawn, stretched out on the couch, let out a frustrated breath and covered his eyes with his forearm.

"The doctor said recovery took an average of _eight_ weeks, Shawn, and even then, you won't feel back to your old self for months. Don't push it."

"Whatever, man. It should be faster than this. Everything still hurts like it was friggin' yesterday." His chest ached, his collarbone, his arms. He had quickly learned to dread sneezing like he dreaded talking to his dad, as it sent sharp, shooting pain through him that lingered for hours. And, though he'd been advised not to stay in the same place or position for too long, moving around too much left him winded, like he'd just sprinted a mile.

"_Gus,_" Shawn whined. "I hate this."

"Yeah, well, it's happening, so you better get used to it," Gus replied distractedly, starting in on a large stack of papers he'd just pulled from his briefcase.

"Wow, buddy. If I'm not mistaken, _I'm _the one who just recently had his sternum cracked open."

"Then stop complaining to me," was the retort.

Shawn groaned and rolled over. It was clear he wasn't getting any sympathy from his friend at the moment.

It was times like this he wished he had more friends.

* * *

The nurse saw his eyes roll into the back of his head, heard the monitors begin beeping loud and fast, and she knew what was happening.

Then, the beeping turned into a long, steady siren and he slumped bonelessly onto the bed.

In seconds, the room was a flurry of doctors and nurses. A crash cart was rolled in, his gown was ripped open, his chest prepared.

A jolt. His body jerked.

Again.

Again, and the heart monitor was still producing that high whine.

Again. A jolt. His body jerked. His heart started.

It was only a fleeting victory; the blood his heart was once again pumping through his system was still infected.

It had been five hours since Shawn's infection had been discovered. It was late, and Lassiter and Juliet had had to go back to the station after hour three to process some evidence.

* * *

Gus, Henry, and Madeleine had heard the commotion—the clamoring of doctors trying to save a life—and they were pleading silently to themselves that it wasn't Shawn.

But then there was a disheveled-looking Doctor Barnum, walking toward them with a chart clutched in front of him.

"Shawn went into cardiac arrest," he said tiredly, sadly. "We were able to bring him back relatively quickly, and he's stable for now. We have to start attacking this infection even more aggressively."

"Aggressively," Madeleine repeated—a question, but barely. Too shocked, too full of dread, she couldn't force volume or inflection into her tone.

"I think we should consider hyperbaric oxygen therapy," he told them. "It should get more oxygen into his wound and will help him fight off the infection."

"What does it involve?" Henry croaked.

"Shawn would be placed in a large plastic tube for a certain length of time, probably around two hours. During this time, the pressure inside the tube will be gradually increased and Shawn will be breathing pure oxygen. It's been proven effective in treating infection. The only issue is, we can't commence the treatment until his fever's gone down."

"Why's that?"

"He's been experiencing a lot of nausea and can't keep anything down. It's best if he can just relax and breathe normally in the hyperbaric chamber."

"Okay," Henry breathed finally. "Okay."

"Thank you, doctor," Madeleine added, aware that her ex-husband wasn't one to bother with social niceties even in the best of situations.

The doctor nodded and left them to their worry, their heartbreak, their despair.

* * *

Shawn was finally, miraculously, feeling better. Spending a couple hours in a cooling blanket did wonders for his fever and he had managed to swallow some water. He wondered idly if he was allowed to keep the cooling blanket on in the hyperbaric chamber.

And he was, once again, allowed visitors.

The door opened and Gus came in.

"Hey, Gus," he rasped.

"Hey, Shawn. You're looking better."

"I feel better." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. The breath made the skin on his chest stretch and his wound throbbed, but he ignored it. "Still not good though. What's my temp?"

Gus glanced at the monitor. "100," he said. "That's pretty good."

"Yeah, I heard the nurse say it got up to 103." His throat was ragged and dry. He cleared it noisily. "Hey, can you hand me some water?"

Awkwardly, he pulled the hand free of the IV needle out from under the blanket and reached across himself to grab the proffered water. Gus pressed the button on the remote to raise the bed just enough so that Shawn could drink.

He took a sip and the water felt so soothing and so delicious that he couldn't stop drinking. It slid down his throat and the feeling was almost _magical—_after several large gulps, Gus snatched the cup away. Shawn whimpered slightly at the loss.

"Don't overdo it, Shawn," Gus scolded, placing the cup back on the table. "You'll choke."

He sat down in the chair next to the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs, and watching his best friend as he began to doze.

Shawn had almost died today. Well, technically, he _had _died, and the doctors brought him back. And even though the cooling blanket was lowering the fever, it was by no means curing his infection. His brain was no longer in danger of boiling, but at any time, his body could decide again that it had taken too much abuse and shut down.

How many times could they bring him back?

"Shawn?" he asked, his voice small as he let the reality of the situation sink in.

Shawn blinked once or twice and sluggishly turned his head. "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say you're the best friend I could ever—"

"Whoa, dude. Let's just not even go there."

"But— I just want you to know—"

"Gus, I _know_. Believe me, I know everything you're going to tell me, so just don't. No matter what happens… we're never gonna say goodbye. Got it?"

Gus's nose and eyes began to sting and he quickly lowered his head. He nodded quickly, taking in a sharp breath as tears began to drip down onto his hands. "Okay."

"Gus. Hey," Shawn murmured, reaching out a hand. "You're going to be okay."

It was such an absurd thing to say, when _he _was the one lying in the hospital, post-surgery, infected and dying. It was just as bad as saying goodbye.

"Shut up, Shawn. Don't say that to me," he remarked sullenly. Shawn smiled at him, just slightly, and it was so refreshing to see—so different from the atmosphere of utter gloom he'd been wallowing in for the past few days—that he couldn't help but return the gesture.

He stood up—his visiting time was over—and he crossed to the door. Stopping in the doorway, he turned around to just look at Shawn.

He still had hope that his friend would pull through. But he would never forgive himself if something happened and he hadn't gotten to say goodbye.

So, as Shawn squirmed uncomfortably under his stare, too tired to think of some witty deflection, Gus said it in his head: _This could be the last time I ever see you, so just in case… Goodbye, Shawn. You are my best friend and I love you._

Before the sick man's brain could finally form something to say, he turned and left the room, feeling as though his worry would drown him.

* * *

_**Albuquerque, New Mexico, 2003**_

This was ridiculous.

Not only was Shawn was wearing a stupid hospital gown, but he was also running on a treadmill, attached to a bunch of wires. And he was being monitored.

It was just so stupid. He wasn't sick. He really didn't need to be here, acting like a giant idiot, so that nothing would happen and the doctor would tell him nothing was wrong.

_There is no weird feeling in my chest. It is not hard to breathe. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me, there's _nothing wrong with me.

Pain leaked into his head, throbbing under his ears, as his heart pounded in his chest. His vision turned dark and fuzzy. He could feel his limbs tingling fiercely, turning to jelly.

The next thing he knew he was sprawled out face-down on the floor, eyes closed, savoring the coolness of the tile against his flushed skin. He was unsure of how he got there, but he thought it might have had something to do with whoever was patting his cheek. The hand was small and cold. In the next instant he was being turned over onto his back.

"Shawn, you okay? Shawn, can you open your eyes for me?"

But they were so heavy.

He opened his eyes to slits and the face of Doctor James was hovering over him.

"Can you sit up?"

Whoa, whoa. Sitting up? He'd just barely managed to open his eyes, for God's sake. He squeezed his abs and lifted himself a few inches off the floor. The doctor's arm slipped behind his back and pulled him up the rest of the way. She dragged him a few feet over to lean against the wall.

"You're strong," he murmured, his eyes sliding closed again.

"Hey, hey, no. Stay with me, Shawn. You need some water?"

He nodded, looking blearily around the room. The treadmill was still running, making a mechanical whirring noise that he could barely hear over the rush of blood and the thumping of his heart in his ears. The wires he'd been attached to now hung limply in the air and the monitors were making sounds of warning and desperation. The nurse that had been present during his test was hurrying off to get him some water.

As he began to regain the feeling in his body, he began to hurt. His face, his shoulder, his arm, ribs, leg hurt from where he had come tumbling down. The memory of the past few minutes was hazy, but being who he was, he at least remembered it. It was all coming back to him, anyway.

_There is nothing wrong with me_.

Somehow it was harder to convince himself this time.

* * *

Juliet had to lock herself in a records room at the station when Lassiter got the phone call because she could feel herself breaking and she knew she couldn't hold it in.

Once she was alone, it was completely hopeless. She slid down the wall and sat with her knees in front of her face, her hand pressed over her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobs.

How the _hell _did this happen? Last week there was nothing wrong with him. There was no hospital, no heart condition. There was only harmless flirting. There was her friend, solving cases, brightening the police station with his smiles and his wit and his jokes. How could he be dying? Why did his heart stop? When did everything go wrong?

Was it sudden? Did the chase in the alley cause all of this? Or was it behind the scenes? Maybe it was a gradual deterioration of the valve, gone unnoticed until the damage was so severe that Shawn couldn't breathe.

She wanted to shoot something—but she had no idea what.

* * *

His heart had stopped.

They had told him just about as soon as he woke up, but it took this long to let the information really sink in.

It was the morning after, and he'd gotten fretful sleep still wrapped in the cooling blanket. The hyperbaric oxygen treatment was supposed to happen in just about an hour or two.

His heart had fucking _stopped_. He had been dead. If the doctors hadn't been able to revive him, he would be gone forever.

He made a small, frustrated noise and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. The other one was hooked to an IV that was pumping him full of even stronger antibiotics than he'd been on before. They were trying to kill the infection and it was working very gradually—at least, he seemed to be out of danger for now. And every time they took off the bandages to clean his horrible, seeping wound, it looked a little bit less putrid.

Damn, but it still smelled.

He chuckled at this, but it sounded a little too high-pitched and hysterical, and it triggered tears. He pinched the bridge of his nose as his face contorted and his breath hitched loudly. The jerking of his body as he cried sent shocks of sharp pain through him.

It didn't matter that he was feeling better, that there was some hope because of his pending treatment.

Death was what finally broke him.

* * *

And scene. :)

Thanks for reading! Please review.


End file.
